


that new book smell

by Honeyjoonbug



Category: 2020 - Fandom
Genre: Anyways, Other, and books, book smell, i dont want this to be a pity party, i fucking miss libraries like crazy dawg, inspired by naxariis, istg this is just a way for me to vent because I feel so damn trapped and fake in my own life, this is just for myself because, time is passing too damn fast, trigger warning: im depressed as shit and if you are too this probably won't make it any better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:01:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25328962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeyjoonbug/pseuds/Honeyjoonbug
Summary: dig around in the mushy head of mine a little bit, so I can at least keep track of the damn days and feel alive
Relationships: polyamourous cat farm
Comments: 13
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

today i was thinking about how i really wished i could go back to fifth grade me, because i really liked to read then. often, i had at least five books stuffed into my desk at all times, so that if the teacher got mad at me and took the one i was engrossed in at the time, i could just pull out another. 

it really didn’t help that my classroom often had multiple of the same book in case certain students wanted the same one. 

one thing that has really intensely stuck with me is my unrealistic dream of living in a library, especially the public one in my area. it’s big and open, with the walls being mostly window and glass, and stepping a foot onto that gray carpet that all public facilities seem to have brought me a sense of stillness. somehow, the jitteriness of being would stop, the feeling of curling up against a towering bookcase like a column i could safely lean on would settle into me, and i’d stay there for hours. 

it’s not an exaggeration to say that it was my own little world; staff members had to use the loudspeakers to shout out my name because i lost track of time once and my parents couldn’t find me anywhere. 

perhaps what i’m trying to convey, without even noticing is that my preference was never to live in the moment but outside, in novels and in the lives of other characters. 

books were eventually replaced like all silly childish obsessions are, but just with more silly fancies. i discovered fanfic at helluva young age, and it really opened a door that allowed me to be anyone i wanted to be, and holy shit i wish this could be a college fucking essay. 

anyways, i started this today because i felt like shit. man, this isn’t a pity party, and i hope it doesn’t appear to be one. i was honestly inspired by naxariis, another writer on ao3, because i also want proof these days passed by, and i experienced, lived, and felt what happened. 

these days i wake up thinking that i just woke up yesterday. time is catching up too damn fast to me, and this is my way of trying to slam the breaks pretty fucking please on it. 

back to the reason i started this: today was the first time i really wanted to die. maybe not die. i didn't want to exist anymore and i thought how nice it would be if the big friendly giant picked me up and we ran away or it could just be as okay if he just stuffed me into a white box and said goodbye. i don’t really think anyone would miss me that much if i left anyways and just curled up in my box, or in my own little private library. 

see, the frustrating part is that i have the perfect recipe to want to exist. i don’t face the oppression that my black and brown brothers and sisters do, i have a decent family even if they still accept my molestor, and my friends really do care about me. i laugh a lot around my friends and i feel fine but i know they’re fucking tired of me.  
i also do know that some of this is all in my head but then how do i explain the parts that aren’t?

the thing that really makes me laugh is that i got into an argument with this girl a few days ago who was feeling left out from some other people. she admitted to us and apologized about trying to manipulate different people because she felt isolated and abandoned but the thing is

in the moment i thought how can someone be so passive aggressive and desperate like this girl? funny how i feel like her now, just instead of making the same mistake of showing to others how i feel by making them feel bad. 

one wish is all i have and that is for the people around me to treat me like i’m not useless or second choice. but people have been doing that a lot and i know they’re not bad people they just probably don’t care but that hurts so much it feels like my chest is squeezing the breath out of my lungs. and they aren’t even big instances either, just like ignoring me when i text them the first time and the second time days later. 

i feel like there’s something wrong with me. maybe i’m just this broken little person who isn’t even lovable. fuck i know how this sounds. but really, maybe it’s true. i dont think anyone can like someone as ugly and fucking annoying as me. I’m so stupid and arrogant for even texting them in the first place shit, that’s just adding another burden. i know they saw it, but is it that unreasonable to text one word back?

fuck .

i just want someone to shove me into a little white box. anything to escape this world where i drag down people only. anything to leave.


	2. i wrote this for AP lit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the assignment was, write an essay of the things you carry, as inspired by Tim O Brien's book The Things They Carried. i highly recommend it's one of the best books i've ever read

I know a lot of people who keep their lives meticulously intact, ducks all lined up in a row and bags packed ready at the door in the mornings; however I might wish, that is not me. Nevermind constant objects I carry on me, half the time I cannot even find the bag itself. It is not that there is no desire to do so either, but papers, makeup, jewelry all seem to slip past my fingers like sand, with my mind struggling to simply catch up with the day's responsibilities. When looking at a venn diagram of what I heft around daily, the overlap section sadly droops with a lack of possessions. 

Even figurative weight is limited, as I often find myself forgetting everything and anything. The connections that are tirelessly built between me and others have seemed to crumble away during quarantine as the space for people grows smaller and smaller. What remains is only the rind of my head, where core pieces of myself remain. Peeled back, the fleshy insides are clustered in their organized chaos, jam packed to the rim like sardines with very little extra room to spare. It is hard to say if it is because I’m a hoarder or because I do not have much space to begin with. 

There is a limit to the people I can carry as I go through the day and rely for them for courage. Traditionally, family should be one of the pillars of strength, but I only look to my grandparents in need. My parents and siblings seem to lean too inefficiently in different directions, with their words skewed both painfully and misplaced. Chosen family is where most of my weight resides; they share the burden and I in turn theirs. From where I live, there is only one person that holds my hands and hugs me during sunsets. I carry them in my lungs, because they allow me to breathe in clean air in a polluted environment. 

Last year I went to a summer camp where three girls from California, Texas, and Canada formed an unshakable comradery. They have slowly but surely carved out and settled into little pockets of space in my limbic cortex, where dopamine and serotonin come from. When I walk around, I think of them and I feel them when I daydream during class; associated with them is the grit on rooftops underneath fingertips, the ring of facetime at night, wifts of GoJo soap and chinese historical shows. People are much easier to carry than wallets or keys.

On my body, I unconsciously carry traces of my habits and life. More often than not cat hair will be glued to whatever clothing worn that day because my cat makes it a habit to sleep on the laundry. Chipped nail polish and rough cuticles adorn my fingers, the closest thing to rings that will decorate them. I carry the weight of overthinking and self doubt, as reflected in my urge to constantly bite my nails. These burdens come from a series of failed friendships that have plagued me that I feel reflect the worth others see in me. They each weigh forty-eight hours of my playlist Fucj that has only the songs Feels Like This by Maisie Peters and Liability by Lorde on repeat. 

Two out of three days the roots of my hair will carry grease because I learned in middle school that washing your hair too much will cause it to get even oilier. So despite a burning hatred for greasy hair, I have learned to ignore that unchangeable imperfection along with many others: the curve of the muscle that is draped on my bones and the lack of western features on my face in a white country.  
Right now, I am holding too much in my hands. The understanding that I am past my limits in terms of strength is very much apparent with each new task that must be completed.

Will I reach the limit of all I can carry? It remains to be seen if the pulpy insides will overfill and spill onto the ground below once I run out of room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last paragraph about my hair struck me hard. how burdensome


End file.
